I often set three or four alarms five minutes apart so I am sure to wake up. However, when asking Siri to set the alarms she relentlessly announces that she set the alarm. Her tone is so triumphant and proud that it annoys me. And telling me that she set the alarm when I can see that it is done is really unnecessary. So, tonight when I was trying to get her to set an alarm she kept congratulating herself for doing so. I told her, rather rudely to shut the f*ck up. So she went ahead and set a shut the f*ck up alarm for 5:55 am.

Nice Job, Deskjet!

 

Whenever I replace an ink cartridge, my printer insists on printing a test page. Every time? How about getting it right the first time? What am I supposed to do with these results when they come out? “Nice job, HP Deskjet 2755e! I knew you could do it!” I think it’s nothing but another way for the printer companies to get you to waste ink and buy more. And don’t get me started as to why ink cartridges cost more money than what I spent on the printer.

Finding Faith

 Buy "The Art of God" on Amazon.

Alan Vaughn and his wife, Janet, got into a car accident. Janet dies in the crash, and Alan is in a coma. When he awakens, he believes God wishes for him to carve a work of art. Alan starts the project with unfamiliar tools and skills, enduring pain from his crash injuries. Alan finishes his artwork, which inspires deep devotion in others, and he loses his faith. Those who want more of his work, and reporters who are looking to tell his story, pursue Alan. Alan distances himself from his art and begins a personal journey to find God again.

Finding Faith

This past Easter, I was talking with acquaintances at my son’s lacrosse game. When asked if I was going to church, I fumbled as did not know what to say. The answer was no, and the moment of awkwardness did not pass quickly. They could not know that my struggle with faith was more germane in my life at that moment than ever before.

When my father was alive, I could refer to him and say that he had enough devotion for his entire family. We attended mass when we visited him, or when he came to our home for the weekend, I took him to our church. When he died, those opportunities vanished, and so did my connection to the church.

Dad was the spiritual leader of our family. My parents would bring their six children to Our Lady of the Assumption each Sunday, as it was their duty to do so. I modeled my belief in God after theirs: stoic, unquestioned, and rooted in the rites and traditions of holy days and holidays. In my teenage years, I rebelled and questioned my belief in God as only an insolent seventeen-year-old could. It was natural to me that if I were to challenge my parents, I too would turn from the Lord as the ultimate affront to my mother and father and their beliefs.

As a parent, I made sure that my kids each received their sacraments, and that made my father happy, as he was glad that we at least gave our children a chance to find their own faith. After my mother died, I would take my father to the five o’clock mass each Saturday when he came to stay with us. During this period, I learned that my father’s belief in God was not some habit drilled into him as a boy while attending catholic school. His conviction struck him during WWII on a battlefield in Italy when he had been shot and left for dead. In a magical coincidence, he awoke as he was being administered last rites by an army chaplain. He thought he had died, and when he looked at the face of the man praying over him, clad in olive drab and holding a prayer book, he recognized him to be a priest from back home. From then on, he knew deep within his heart that he was alive, and that God willed it so.

There was no such calling for me. When I pray, it is as though I am poking my head into a large, empty, darkened room and calling out to no one. The only light is a sliver sneaking in from behind me. From time to time, I check in to see if someone answered or if he left a note on the door for me. But, right now there is nothing beyond that entrance except empty space.

Maybe soon, during the next holiday season, as Christmas music fills the shopping malls and the radio airwaves, I’ll rap on the door again. Perhaps no one will answer, but I will keep returning. There will be an answer one day when I call out. I have faith.

The Mystery of the Autographed Novel

 

I found this on the internet. Very interesting. This was uploaded to a site by station14.cebu. I am not sure if that is someone's username, or if it denotes a location. Cebu is in the Philippines. The real mystery is how one of my autographed copies ended up in the Philippines. #novel #book #booklovers #author #autograph #thedaddyrock #fiction #fictionbooks

The History Dad

 

My Dad was more than a lover of books. He was an amateur historian. His library included titles covering WWI, WWII, steam engines, ships (Dad had always wanted to be a ship captain), birds (he was also a birdwatcher), and the Civil War. In addition, he shared his passion for reading with our mother, who typically sat in the living room after supper with a cup of hot tea and a mystery. My siblings and I became accustomed to shelves of literature and history books crammed into every corner of our tiny Cape Cod style home. A professor at a renowned university praised my father’s extensive knowledge of American history, stating that he knows more than the average history professor.

It should have been no surprise the number of books we accounted for in our parents’ home after dad passed away in May 2009. While searching for a box in a crawlspace with a flashlight, I stumbled upon a collection of documents that were significant because they connected to my father’s past occupation.

I dragged the flimsy, cardboard box from the eaves and into my old bedroom. Dripping with sweat and covered in dust, I eyed the contents, which at first glance seemed unimpressive. Many were reports, plain blue and gray government documents. One title grabbed me. On the pale blue cover, in all capital letters across the top, the title said, The United States Strategic Bomb Survey. Underneath, the subtitle read, The Effects of Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The words Atomic Bombs were in a much larger font size than the rest of the text.

Other booklets caught my attention, too. The End of the War in the Pacific, Surrender Documents in Facsimile, Germany Surrenders Unconditionally, International Military Trials, Nurnberg, and most impressive, Charter of the United Nations, in five languages. There were about two dozen of these government publications. Their numismatic value is uncertain, their historic significance indisputable, but their worth as family heirlooms, enormous.

Details about how my father came to own this collection of historic papers are sketchy. He worked for the US Navy in the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Dad took the job of forklift driver in his late twenties. He was ill for years after his discharge from the army in November 1944, battling pneumonia and various infections–all complications from his wounds, and much more manageable with today’s medicines. There, he took advantage of the many education opportunities offered both by the Navy and through the GI Bill. He studied accounting, management, and mechanics. By the end of his twenty-year tenure, he worked in an office as a labor liaison between the unions and the government. The records of his employment gave few clues how he would gain access to this trove of government journals. In another box, I discovered a newspaper. The Navy published a weekly newspaper for its employees. On the front page, in the lower, right-hand corner, I noticed a picture of a group of men and women in business attire. Among the names mentioned in the caption was my father’s He was in the back row, taller than many of them, smiling, and according to the description, named to the NSA Library Committee.

As a member of a library commission, he could easily acquire the items I uncovered in his home. However, I have not confirmed if the NSA organization he worked for was indeed the National Security Agency, or a defunct branch of the government. Perhaps I don’t want to unravel the mystery surrounding my father’s trove of important booklets. The tiny enigma accompanying them adds an aura to the memory of my father as a man who had influence above the ordinary capacity of a lower-middle-class family man. I think my father kept these because of their historical importance. I’m certain he knew I would find and value them as he did before he passed away. If only he had told me about them earlier, I wouldn’t have had to go through the trouble of getting them from the dusty eaves.